If I'm Being Honest(89)

Wait.

I grab the UCLA brochure. Why didn’t I think of this before?





Forty-Three



I’M SWEATING, HEAVY DROPLETS RUNNING DOWN MY neck, and dying to roll up the itchy fabric of my sleeves. The elaborately embroidered bodice clenches my chest uncomfortably, the edges jutting into my ribs.

I can’t believe people actually do this for fun.

Of course, it is an amazing costume. It’s Paige’s handiwork, the product of a week spent studying the few images I had, designing, fitting, and shopping for fabric, wire, and the perfect buttons.

I’m the living replica of the sorceress from The Girl’s a Sorceress. I followed one of Elle’s Halloween tutorials for the makeup, a dark smoky eye and deep purple lips. It hurt not having her there in person, just the way it hurts every time one of our dance-party anthems comes up on my running playlists. And the hurt reminds me how what I’m doing right now might not work.

Walking through the UCLA sculpture garden, I feel the sun blistering my back. I’m really, really hot. Temperature-hot, that is. Although, I’m hoping I’m the other type, too. My costume is essentially a leotard with a long, double-slit skirt freeing my legs. Paige lowered the neckline to give it more décolletage and constructed a corset-like bodice with Gothic details. I have full sleeves and thigh-high boots—not ideal in the eighty-degree December afternoon. We don’t have the luxury of seasons in Los Angeles, and the complete lack of cloud cover over UCLA certainly isn’t helping.

I earn stares the entire walk to the Charles E. Young Research Library. Which I expected. I am, I would dare to guess, the only person dressed as a witch on this entire campus. Undeterred, I pull open the door to the convention center on the library’s first floor.

For a moment, it’s overwhelming. I underestimated the city’s population of teenage video game designers. I walk past the booths, unable to avoid scoping out Brendan’s competition. The entries range from the basic to the elaborate. Doggos appears to involve only controlling a pixelated dog to collect tacos. Others—Red Mist, Zombies on the Moon—feature stomach-churning, photorealistic gore. I find a couple of girls in one booth nervously watching a judge demoing Wolf Warrior.

And then I turn a corner, and there’s Brendan. He’s a few booths away, and he hasn’t noticed me yet. He’s explaining something to a judge, and I fall in love all over again with the eager intensity in his eyes, the perfectly unruly curl of his hair over his forehead. The cafeteria boss battle of The Girl’s a Sorceress is up on the widescreen monitor over the judge’s shoulder. Brendan unpauses the game, and I watch the computerized choreography I know well.

When the judge reaches over to play the demo, I catch Brendan’s eye. His mouth drops open a little. I watch him take in my costume, heart in my throat with nervousness.

“So the game’s open-world?” the judge asks, interrupting the moment.

Brendan clears his throat. “Um,” he fumbles to reply. “What did you say?”

I wait a few paces from the booth, not wanting to interrupt his presentation. Brendan appears to recover his composure, giving the judge a long reply and demonstrating gameplay. Finally, the judge nods once, looking impressed, and leaves. For a moment, Brendan looks relieved and exhilarated, until his expression clouds and he searches the crowd for me.

I take a breath and walk up to the booth.

“I felt it was appropriate,” I say, gesturing to the costume. “I do have a few things in common with the character. I’m blonde and intimidating, and I tend to do terrible things I really regret . . .”

Just then, as if the demo were listening, the sorceress viciously decapitates the hero’s head. I wince.

Brendan’s expression is hard. “What are you doing here, Cameron?”

“You once told me how much it would mean to you if someone cosplayed as one of your characters.”

“You remembered that?” For a moment, he looks like he’s forgotten he’s angry.

“Of course I remembered,” I say, hoping he hears the sincerity in my voice. “We were on the blankets in the cemetery. Waiting for Rocky to begin.”

Brendan softens. But then, like he’s remembering everything I said to him at the dance, his frown returns.

“Follow me,” he says gruffly.

He leads me through the crowd, past Wolf Warrior and Zombies on the Moon. I catch more curious glances. We go out the front doors and into the sculpture garden, where Brendan finally brings us to an abrupt halt.

I don’t hesitate. “Brendan, I’m sorry. For everything I said to you at winter formal, for the way I drove you away, for the girl you saw me become when I was cruel to Bethany.”

Brendan huffs. “We’ve done this before. You don’t get unlimited apologies, Cameron. I should have stuck to what I told you then. Stay out of my life,” he says, his expression stern, but his voice wavers.

His hesitation is enough to give me the confidence to continue. “I will, once I’ve said what I came here to say. I need to explain what was happening with me the night of the dance. Remember the internship Elle mentioned?”

Brendan nods nearly imperceptibly.

“Well . . . I didn’t get it. Which I know sounds insignificant. It just—it was with my dad’s company, and I felt like if even he didn’t want me, I couldn’t be worth much of anything. I felt like I didn’t deserve you. So I lied, and I told you we weren’t real. I wanted to push you away because it’s what I thought I deserved.”